


your tiny infinity

by 1001cranes



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cunnilingus, F/M, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Menstruation Kink, Oral Sex, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter walks back into the trailer she has the towel Lynda left on the hammock wrapped around her. It just covers the essentials, tits to ass, but Roman’s gaze drops just below. She thinks he’s staring at the hair on her legs, for a minute - legend is not exactly kidding about werewolves being hairy, and Peter’s never given a fuck about shaving anything - but he saw that last night when she was naked on the front lawn. He’s seen everything, every part of her, and he’s staring at the blood slipping between her thighs.</p><p>Or, the one where Roman goes down on Peter because goddamn, we know he'd be into it. [Rule 63!Peter/Roman]</p>
            </blockquote>





	your tiny infinity

The morning after the full moon is always cold and uncomfortable. Peter walks home quickly, stark naked, blood sticking between her thighs. Her period always starts just after the full moon. Nicolae was the seventh son of a seventh son; being a werewolf is Peter’s gift, and this is her curse. It’s the biohazardous frosting on top of waking up in the woods naked and alone, but Peter deals, because everything Peter is is in her blood. 

When she walks back into the trailer she has the towel Lynda left on the hammock wrapped around her. It just covers the essentials, tits to ass, but Roman’s gaze drops just below. She thinks he’s staring at the hair on her legs, for a minute - legend is not exactly kidding about werewolves being hairy, and Peter’s never given a fuck about shaving anything - but he saw that last night when she was naked on the front lawn. He’s seen everything, every part of her, and he’s staring at the blood slipping between her thighs.

Well shit, she thinks, shee-it, with a kind of dark humor, because she’s about to do something stupid. She probably always was, more than likely, getting close to Roman Godfrey, to an upir, to the kind of boy that not only can’t be friends with girls but can’t be friends with anyone. He licks his lips looking at the blood running down her, and it’s not something she’d run around advertising - it’s not something she even knew turned her on, up until this moment - but it makes something light up inside her. Something lower than her Swadhisthana, which sits a few inches below her navel; something shallower, like steam rising off a lake in the early morning.

But orgasms are good for pain - scientific fact, and common sense besides; orgasms are _good_. Peter’s post-transformation ritual is a hot shower, fingers slicked up between her legs and settled inside, followed by however much food Lynda can shovel into her before she stumbles to bed. If she’s lucky, she gets another one out before she sleeps, and another in the morning. A few minutes cozy afterglow, stretching out her limbs until the bones crack and her joints protest before going to the bathroom to wash the blood off her hands and out of her knuckles. Sometimes she scrapes the bits out from under her nails with her teeth. 

“Hey,” Peter says, and it still takes a minute for his eyes to slide back up to her face. She raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t even look guilty to have been caught. Little shit, she thinks, and even in her head it seems fond. 

“My bedroom’s in the back,” she says instead, and glides past the little kitchenette where Lynda is steadily making pancakes, past the bathroom, past the closed door of Nicolae’s old bedroom and the hot water heater. She doesn’t drop the towel so much as sit on it and let the rest slide down, comfortably worn underneath her scrawny ass. 

Roman shuts the door behind him. The look on his face almost puzzled.

“What?”

“Usually there’s more…” he flounders. “More.”

Peter snorts. “You don’t have to convince me. Not like that.” She’s easy, for certain definitions of the word, and she’s not about to deny herself something she feels the need of here and now. 

Roman tilts his head back. Lips pursed, slightly, like he’s just realizing she’s naked.

“Well?” she says, half cajoling, half belligerence, the way boys so charmingly try to persuade, my-dick-isn’t-going-to-suck-itself-sweetheart.

It makes Roman regain some of his relentless equilibrium. He smiles at her, as real as a thing as she's ever seen from him, more teeth than smirk. He puts his hands on her knees and runs his fingers up the inside of her thighs, thumbs slicking up with blood on the way, dragging through the dark hairs that crawl up the soft inner legs and culminate in the bush of hair she never trims. And she is hairy, dark and hairy from the greasy on her head to the coarse on her legs. Just another way she's always stood out, though Roman isn't looking at her the way some boys do. Then again - he's seen it before, she reminds herself, he's seen her rip herself apart and eat her own flesh, what does this matter? But Roman's the first, maybe, to skip looking puzzled, to skip searching for the prize entirely, the first who runs his fingers through the hair from her pubis to her navel and back down again. Like scratching the underbelly of a dog. 

"You really are a shit," is what she says, but her voice is thin with laughter or arousal, and when she puts her hand on Roman's face he tilts it sideways to kiss the pad of her thumb, sucking and sweet, his mouth already red, his cheeks already flushed - he's an upir, she reminds herself. You're playing with real knives instead of trick ones, an unmarked deck. You should be careful; Destiny's voice like thunder in her head.

Roman lowers his head slowly, as though he expects her to tell him no, or to tug his head back, make him bare his throat and beg for her. But instincts for games aside, Peter isn't one for fucking around. She runs her fingers through his hair instead, breaking through the crust of gel on the surface to the softness beneath, and he licks the smears of blood off her skin, scrapes up her thighs, the blunt pressure of his teeth dancing somewhere between playful and promising, the edge of a bite. His smiles could put a wolf's grin to shame, and when he finally puts his mouth on her cunt Peter shudders. She can smell his arousal, and her own, and the way she's leaking; hears the slick of his tongue as he licks the blood out of her, increasingly frantic. The push of his fingers like bruises on her thighs as he spreads her wider, as she digs her heel into his back. 

It doesn't surprise her that Roman would be good at this. That's easy to guess; there are boys like Roman in every town, everywhere; boys who build their reputation on the ruin of girls'. On the other hand, it's surprising how much Roman seems to want it, how much that turns _her_ on, the single-minded Godfrey selfishness. Whys or hows, whatever - she can feel herself opening up for him. Like a flower, maybe, six vermillion petals and a white crescent moon, her Swadhisthana practically blooming. And it's not a warning, not the way most of Hemlock Grove makes her want to clamp up tighter than a whore in church -- it's a _want_. She's going to ride it out against his blue-blooded face, whining as she urges him on. She might wonder at her shamelessness later, turn it over in her mind - Roman, or the blood, or just post-full moon neediness? - but the whys are always less important than whether something happens at all. 

She’s smart enough to know that letting an upir slide his fingers inside her like this is stupid and reckless, but his fingers are fucking _beautiful_. They’re long fingers, elegant, because no Godfrey heir would ever dare to fall short of expectations, not even the tiniest part of him. So Roman is an amalgamation of excess - an excess of lips, of length of bone; excess wants, excess feelings- and even his needs are distorted, gaping absences begging to be filled. Abysses. She’s also smart enough to know this can only end badly - will only ever _end_ , one messy way or another - but Peter thinks modern life too often lacks the right amount of chaos. She loves to rubberneck at accidents. Even ones she caused.

"Still waiting to be impressed," she tells him, and smothers his laughter, takes it inside her. She feels his tongue slip in and out of her, sliding around his own fingers. He thumbs over her clit, just off to the side at first, teasing little slides into bigger circles until her muscles feel electrified, shocked, clenching and unclenching while her body jolts. There's sweat gathering under the curve of her breasts, barely there, slick and smelling almost sweet, definitively human. It's hard to decide between running her hands over herself and gripping Roman's hair, tilting his face back to tilt her pelvis down, harder, to take with greedy handfuls what he's already giving. 

The comedown after a full moon is hard; brutal, sometimes, with the aches and pains of changing, the staggering realization that Peter is back on two limbs again. It's not that Peter is inherently more wolf than human, or wants to be, but the changeback is always disconcerting - like taking an afternoon nap in the sun and waking up the dark. It's why it takes her so long, maybe, to just now put together the smells, the sounds - to realize that Roman is using one hand to jerk himself off, pulling on his cock with a wet mix of his spit and her blood. 

She claws at the back of his neck, his shoulder, getting more and more wet as he rubs the scent of her all over him, slick and furious. "Fuck," and then " _fuck_ " again, groaning. She bites her lip until it bleeds, bites at her fingers to stop herself from howling from the sheer pleasure of it, even as she fucks herself on Roman's. It's easy to get caught up in the pleasure of it, to hurl herself over the cliff, bodily and profane, and hang in the air for one moment. She's somewhere else in the half-second her heart stops - celestial, projected, not human, not wolf, not in Hemlock Grove - until it stutters back up again, just out of time with Roman's. Badum, badum. Dum. A singular shared moment. 

Roman is quiet, after. He lays his head down on Peter's stomach, cheekbone against the little hairs that congregate around her belly button. Peter runs her fingers through his hair again, slow, like Roman was the wolf and she was the human. His face is messy, chin wet with pink, and she watches as his lazily scrapes every slimy bit off his face and lick his fingers clean. What a fuckhead. It makes her want him more, want him again, even as his smile grows. He can see it - sense it, she thinks, sometimes - and he crawls up onto the bed on top of her, one broad shoulder spanning most of her chest, smelling like the Godfrey he is, money and blood and steel. There are bloody fingerprints on her hips, faint blood smears all up and down her thighs, and Roman Godfrey's spunk rapidly cooling on the edge of her mattress. 

Wherever he is, Nicolae is probably busting a gut laughing.

"Shee-it," she says, after a moment, and Roman lifts his head up and grins, God, too carefree for what they've just done. Somewhere Olivia is valiently fighting off frownlines and doesn't know why. 

"Shee-it," he echoes. His arm around her waist, his still sticky fingers at her waist, and it occurs to her that he's close enough to kiss, and that - fuck, why not? It's not as if she can throw any stones when it comes to tasting her own blood. Roman's already proven his mouth shouldn't be wasted. Her slow 'hey' is artless and lazy, and she twists one shoulder off the bed while Roman slowly blinks. She drags the tip of her nose across Roman's cheek before pressing a kiss to his bottom lip, swollen and still wet, and he opens his mouth. He lets her lick inside, taste the both of them spread over Roman's roughened tongue.

Grateful. He kisses back like he's grateful, with one hand gentling the small of her back. Maybe that was a mistake, Peter thinks. Maybe she cracked this poor boy's heart right open, right here, when she didn't even want it. You never know what hearts are hiding inside them.

She pushes Roman back onto the bed, careless. "Pancakes," she says, "I'm _starving_." Lynda was making them in the kitchen, before. Whole stacks of them, maybe even chocolate chip if Peter's really lucky. She sits up and tries to scent the air, but there's too much blood, sweat, and sex to even make a guess. "You like bacon?"

He shrugs, eyes hooded, like someone had drawn a curtain over them. There's a smudge of blood on his cuffs. "Crispy?"

"However you want to cook it." Peter is more of an omnivore than most. She slides off the bed and pulls on a shirt that's crumpled on the floor, mildly wrinkled. She thinks about getting another orgasm out of Roman after; against his fingers, or on his dick, or seeing if he'll go down on her again. She'd like to fall asleep with him inside of her but that's - dumb, fuck, she needs to get some food in her.

He dwarfs her, once he stands, but she gets her hand around the curve of his neck anyway, and runs her fingers over the knobs of his vertebrae. His undone jeans scratching the skin that peeks out from under the edge of her shirt.

"I owe you one," she says, his hands already slipping up under her shirt. Large, and warm, and faintly wrinkled. Though owing a favor to anyone, much less an upir, should terrify her, she thinks about the the weight of Roman on top of her. She thinks about riding in his senselessly extravagent car, his volatile insecurities, the painfully oversensitive way he'd watch her with his coke bottle green eyes. There's something there, something buried inside of him, as certain as there's something beneath Hemlock Grove. 

Maybe she will crack his heart open, and find it.


End file.
